Johnlock at Hogwarts (and a Manbun)
by MarchingPotterofStorybrooke
Summary: "But something was strikingly different- the boy had his curls pulled into- was it really- a man-bun?" Quidditch is the name of the game, and soon two players will never be the same. Oneshot, Johnlock at Hogwarts. I'M SO SORRY THIS ISN'T K I FORGOT I CURSED it's fixed now XD Rating it T b/c it's one f bomb.


**Hey everyone! So this is just a silly little oneshot I whipped up from an idea I had during school a few weeks ago. It's the Sherlock gang at Hogwarts, and as the title suggests, a manbun is involved. Read on to find out who has it... ;D Love you all! -MPOS**

John wiped the sweat from his brow, grunting in frustration as he tried to heave the trunk of practice Quidditch balls from the broom closet to the field. He was too nice to deny the team when they begged him to bring it out for today's practice- he was without a doubt the stoutest and strongest of the team, and it was nearly impossible for any of the others to manage it. But that didn't mean that it wasn't still bloody difficult.

He pulled as hard as he could and finally got it onto the grass. It would've made things easier… if there hadn't just been a good week of English downpour to make the ground as squishy and impossible to maneuver as anyone could imagine. He paused to sit on the trunk and catch his breath, stretching his calves from stumbling backwards for such a distance.

He jumped when a hand was placed on his shoulder, long and nimble fingers reaching his clavicle.

"Need a hand?" John whirled around, landing on his ass in the mud.

" _Bollocks!_ " he cursed. He looked up, and the first thing his eyes locked on was _holy fucking cheekbones. "Wow._ I mean, uh, no, I'm alright," he stuttered. Dressed in Ravenclaw colors, a boy his age stood above him, eyebrow quirked over startlingly blue eyes. Thick black curls cast a shadow over his features, making his already deadly cheekbones even more pronounced.

"Well?" the boy said. "I haven't got all day, I have to go check on a very delicate brew in Professor Slughorn's room." John fumbled for words as he stood up.

"Uh- hm, no, thanks, I'm alright." The boy shrugged and walked off, leaving John in a shocked stupor. He finally got some sense in himself to think he could've just levitated the damn thing.

" _Lady-witches and gentle-wizards!"_ John heard Mike yell over the din of the stadium. He also heard a faint but still distinct " _Stamford! No more of that nonsense!"_ from Headmistress McGonnagall. " _Are you ready to rumble?!"_ he cried. The stadium roared. They were used to Mike's muggle references nowadays. John pulled at the collar of his beater's uniform, fidgety as he ever was before the first game of the Quidditch season. " _Today we have for your viewing pleasure, Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor!"_ The crowd was _literally_ roaring this time- the Gryffindor side had enchanted their voices to come out as a lion's roar when they cheered. John twirled his bat, humming a calming tune to himself. " _Please welcome to the field, Ravenclaw!"_ He could see the crowd through the tunnel, the Ravenclaws cheering while the Gryffindors boo-ed. House rivalries were nothing like they used to be, but everyone loved a good, fair competition. " _And here comes your beloved home team, GRYFFINDOR!"_ Mike boomed, as the team mounted their brooms and kicked off, zipping into the stadium. He could still hear McGonnagall admonishing Mike for " _favoritism! It's highly unprofessional! You're worse than Mr. Jordan was!_ " John grinned, doing a few flips in the air before joining the formation. His heart skipped a beat, however, when he spotted the Ravenclaw seeker. He'd recognize those cheekbones anywhere.

But something was strikingly different- the boy had his curls pulled into- was it really- a _man-bun?_ John let out an incredulous chuckle, shaking his head. It suited him physically, but from his demeanor in their short encounter, it did _not_ suit his personality, and he found it entertaining to no end to see the paradox across the field from him. A stray curl had pulled out from the knot, and dangled tantalizingly across his forehead. John had a sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out and push it back into place.

" _Ridiculous,_ " he muttered to himself, bringing himself down to earth as he concentrated on Madame Hooch's pre-game spiel.

"Alright everyone. Quaffle's up in three… two… one… " The whistle blew, and they were off.

John peeled away from the pack right away so as to make room for the Chasers to do their part. Gryffindor had the Quaffle, and were making a bold play all the way to the Keeper on the other end. John noticed a returning Ravenclaw player make a move to knock the Gryffindor Chaser and grab the ball. John saw a Bludger whizzing through the air nearby, and leaned forward in pursuit. He caught up with the ball and swung with full force, smacking into the Ravenclaw's shoulder. McGonnagall had modified the rules years ago when she became Headmistress. Before every game, Madame Pomfrey cast a protective charm- the Bludgers still had the forceful impact it took to do their job and knock players off course, but the players felt no pain when hit. This encouraged a great deal more students to play without fear of breaking bones or concussions.

The Ravenclaw having been sufficiently stopped in their pursuit, the Gryffindor Chaser made it to the Keeper, faking them out and landing the ball through the tallest hoop. John pumped a fist in the air, crying out with joy at the first score of the game.

" _TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!"_ Mike screamed into the stadium.

The rest of the game progressed much in this fashion, the extra hours of practice paying off for the Gryffindor team. They were forty points ahead of Ravenclaw with only a minute left. But things could still change in an instant as they well knew, so they rallied and pushed even harder to maintain their lead until their Seeker could catch the Snitch.

 _Speaking of…_ John thought to himself, as he saw a streak of lean blue and bronze zip past out of the corner of his eye. Just in front of the boy was the gold streak of the Snitch. John whirled around, searching for a Bludger to send his way. He found none, and tried yelling to the Gryffindor Seeker. But it was hopeless, he was halfway across the field. John gritted his teeth and gunned his broom forward as fast as possible, on a beeline for the Ravenclaw Seeker.

As he picked up speed, the Gryffindor Seeker finally spotted what was going on and headed in their direction as well. The three boys converged, and just as John saw those lithe fingers reaching out to grasp the Snitch, John collided with him head-on. They spun over and over and over in the air, and he could still hear Mike's voice screaming through the air- " _LESTRADE'S CAUGHT THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS!"_ John's heart raced in excitement and fear as he and the boy- it occurred to him suddenly he didn't know his name- tumbled out of the sky. They never brought wands on the field for fear of breaking them or cheating, so there was nothing to stop them. But to his utter disbelief, they halted a foot above the ground on a perfectly cast Cushioning Charm. The charm was released, and they thudded ungracefully to the ground in a heap of wood and mud and bodies. John was on top of the boy, having been turned around in the air, and as they breathed in and out, he was frozen by the boy's gaze.

"Good game," he breathed, inches from the boy's lips, before his team caught up to him and wrenched him up into their arms, hoisting him above their shoulders in a victory mob. He laughed and begged to be put down, insisting it was all their Seeker's abilities that won the game, but they wouldn't have any of it, praising both him and the Seeker. John looked over his shoulder as he was carried from the stadium, catching the boy's eye as he was surrounded by his peers, surprised to find his eyes on John as well as he picked up John's broom and his own.

"Good game," he could see the boy mouth back at him before turning back to his friends.

John tried to get away from the victory celebrations time and time again that evening, making excuses of homework, of fatigue, and eventually just trying to sneak out. But he was the center of attention all night, and couldn't get away to retrieve his broom and the boy's name. When all the others finally crashed from their high and everyone was snoring in the Common Room, John was finally able to slip out of Gryffindor tower and make his way to Ravenclaw's tower. He was a prefect, allowing him more freedom with curfew than the other students, and he unashamedly took advantage of this now.

He asked a favor of the painting next to the tower entrance, and asked it to retrieve the Ravenclaw seeker for him. He waited, hands shoved in pockets and pacing back and forth, before thinking how ridiculous an endeavor at this time at night and praying that the painting wouldn't find him. But sure enough, the boy poked his head out of the entrance, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he stepped out into the hall, giving a small gasp at the cold flagstone under his feet.

"What do you want?" The words were harsh in any other tone, but the boy said them so matter-of-factly that John had to pause and remember what it is he had come for. "Well, I know you've come for your broom, but not only that, at this hour. You could've retrieved it tomorrow. But something was nagging you, and seeing as we've had two encounters, one being relatively intimate, without your recognition of who I am, I assume it is my name that you've come here for." John flushed pink at his calling their time on the field 'intimate.' "Well, it's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And you're Watson according to your Quidditch robes, and based on Stamford's yelling today, I believe your first name is John. Am I wrong?" He did the eyebrow-quirk again, and John melted a little inside, impressed by his observant nature.

" _Brilliant,"_ he breathed, coherent thought having been wiped from his mind.

"What's brilliant?" Sherlock asked. John's mouth opened and shut multiple times, before harrumphing a little, and finally finding the words.

"Uh, your flying. And, you're very clever. And observant. And, yeah, it's just brilliant." John couldn't lie, he _was_ a great player, and obviously beyond even a standard Ravenclaw's intelligence. His eyes seemed to see everything that no one else could.

"Really? Most people tell me to piss off," Sherlock said, a twinge of a smile on his lips.

"Um, well, I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, I'll just be, uh, going now," he said, jerking a thumb back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.

"Well, you've already taken advantage of your position as prefect. Why not abuse it a little more and take some time in the library? I know a secret passageway to let us in from Ravenclaw Tower." John was fumbling again.

"Um, I don't want to trap you in an unwanted situation, so I feel I should be up front-"

"You _are_ hoping to go on a date, are you not?" John spluttered, laughing again at Sherlock's uncanny perception.

"Uh, yes. Yes, I was," he steeled himself in his resolve.

"Well, will this plan do?" Sherlock queried.

"Yes, yes it will," John murmured, and let Sherlock lead the way into Ravenclaw Tower.

"Sherlock!" John cried, catching up to him across the hall, grabbing his hand and pulling him along, twining their fingers together as they ran.

"What's happened?" Sherlock asked, but not hesitating in following John.

"I _may_ have charmed Lestrade's hair to grow miniature puppies that bark Greg! over and over again, and he may or may not be trying to murder me for it."

" _WATSON!"_ Lestrade roared right on cue.

John let out a whoop as they careened down the halls of Hogwarts and outside, finally losing him on the grounds as they reached the Quidditch pitch, and saw Lestrade overwhelmed by miniature puppies in the distance, the pile growing larger and larger.

But karma got them back as John tripped over a well-placed root, and he and Sherlock tumbled to the ground in a heap as before. But this time, when John was inches away from Sherlock's lips, they weren't strangers. They were best friends, and more than that, and so this time, Sherlock closed the gap, the barking of hundreds of puppies in the distance.

"Why _didn't_ you levitate that trunk in our seventh year?" Sherlock asked, his head in John's lap, with John playing with his curls.

"Muggleborn, remember?" he said. "It was natural for me to do it the muggle way first, it hadn't occurred to me until you left."

"I'm glad you didn't," Sherlock said, humming contentedly John's favorite tune on violin.

"And I'm glad I knocked you off your broom. Where would we be now if I hadn't?"

"Right here," Sherlock replied.

"How? I wouldn't've had an excuse to talk to you."

"I was going to find you the next morning anyways. Never leave fate up to the universe, I say."

"You think this was fate?" John asked, twining their fingers together. Sherlock cast a fond gaze up at John, a gaze reserved _only_ for John.

"Fate, a trunk, and a broom collision, yes," he replied. John laughed out loud at that.

"Well, if the universe begs it of us…" he trailed off, planting a kiss on their tangled fingers.

"Indeed."


End file.
